Embodied Disbelief: Poststructural Feminist Atheism DONOVAN O. SCHAEFER “I quite rightly pass for an atheist,” Jacques Derrida announces in Circumfession. Grace Jantzen’s suggestion that the poststructuralist critique of modernity can also be trained on atheism helps us make sense of this playfully cryptic statement: although Derrida sympathizes with the “idea” of atheism, he is wary of the modern brand of atheism, with its insistence on rationally arranging—straightening out—religion. In this paper, I will argue that poststructur- al feminism, with its focus on embodied epistemology, offers a way to re-explain Derrida’s “I rightly pass,” and also to carry it forward. Poststructural feminist atheism leads us through Derrida to an embodied disbelief drawing on three dimensions of poststructural feminism: feminist epistemology and material feminism, relationality, and affect theory. “she must have known that the constancy of God in my life is called by other names, so that I quite rightly pass for an atheist” Jacques Derrida, Circumfession, 155 “Feminist question: Imagine a ‘corrected’ language. I am against it.” Helene Cixous, Rootprints,63 “[A]re your rights worth nobody liking you? lmfaooooo because your gonna be cranstons biggest douche bag for the next ten years. One day people will randomly say “hey remember that little cunt that tried to take the prayer down.” good job, hope the fame was worth it.” — Comment from Michael (Ahlquist 2011b) “You’re a retard. People in this country have their god given right to worship anyone anything they choose to and who are you to interfere with this. Man you’re going to hell. Hey at the end of the day I know Hypatia vol. 29, no. 2 (Spring 2014) © by Hypatia, Inc. 372 Hypatia it’s better to believe in something then nothing at all... and here you are making yourself more of an outcast and a freak good luck with all that.” — Comment from Owner (Ahlquist 2011c) “The cops will not watch you forever… We will get you good…. Maybe you will gang-banged before we throw you out of one of our cars. [sic]” (Schieldrop 2012) It’s hard not to get angry when you read about Jessica Ahlquist, the seventeen-year- old high school student who, in April of 2011, became the plaintiff in an ACLU- supported lawsuit against the school district of the City of Cranston in Rhode Island. Ahlquist led a small protest movement in the summer of 2010 against a paper plaque that had been hanging on the wall of the auditorium at Cranston High School West since 1963. The banner was inscribed with the “school prayer,” addressed to “Our Heavenly Father” and closing with “amen,” sandwiching happy secular sentiments about friendship and doing one’s best. From the moment she started her Facebook group, Jessica1 became the target of an escalating bullying campaign. After the ACLU filed its lawsuit in April, she and her family received death threats, and some students at Cranston started online Face- book groups to attack her. In November 2010, Jessica was escorted from a school committee hearing by police after the audience formed a mob. From that moment on, she would have police protection traveling to and from school. In January 2012, the day after a District Court judge in Providence ruled for Jessica and the ACLU, a Democratic state representative called her an “evil little thing” in a radio interview. In April of 2012, the Ahlquist family received at their home an unsigned letter, penned by a group of self-described “crusaders” who threa- tened sexual violence against Jessica and her younger sister and demanded the family “get out of Rhode Island.” It’s hard not to get angry when you read about Jessica Ahlquist, and how the everyday roiling currents of high-school bullying fused with the craven electoral cal- culus of public and school officials, only to become a national issue launched by the right-wing media apparatus that fuels and feeds on the politics of the tantrum. Head- line, Providence Journal, July 20, 2010: “ACLU Targets Prayer Banner at High School.” Headline, Fox News, July 23: “ACLU Targets Rhode Island School.” It’s hard not to get angry when you read about Jessica Ahlquist. At the same time, I, at least, am bemused by the content of the lawsuit itself. The banner is a prayer only to the extent that it opens with “our father” and closes with “amen.” In terms of content it is doctrinally empty, and, if the header and footer were removed, it would be indistinguishable from any other annually ignored motivational poster on the wall of a suburban high school. Indeed, Jessica by her own account did not notice the prayer until a friend pointed it out. It was never recited. It was never made a sub- ject of conversation. It was, it seems, as close to harmless as a nominally religious artifact in a public school can be—virtually invisible. Donovan O. Schaefer 373 And it’s hard not to be frustrated by Jessica and the ACLU—not to mention the atheist guerrillas who dove out of the barracks to back them up. A precocious and extraordinarily self-assertive young woman, who reflects everything that we want in our children, Jessica could be fairly accused of condescension. “It’s almost like mak- ing a child get a shot even though they don’t want to,” Jessica said in a New York Times interview in January. “It’s for their own good. I feel like they might see it as a very negative thing right now, but I’m defending their Constitution, too” (Goodnough 2012). Jessica’s supporters have their own moments of rhetorical excess to rival Jessica’s detractors—though Jessica to her credit does not suffer that vice and will interrupt her more ardent fans mid-diatribe. And even though the school committee bears, in my opinion, full responsibility for incurring $150,000 in courtroom fees in choosing to go to war with the ACLU, the perception that the town was being picked on over an insignificant decoration was, in retrospect, inevitable. This is by no means to say Jessica and the ACLU were in the wrong. The history of interpretation of the establishment clause of the United States Constitution’s First Amendment makes clear that public buildings may not serve as advertisements for religious organizations or institutions, and there is no doubt that is what this is. The ACLU’s victory at the hearing bears out that they and Jessica were on the right side of the law, and the Cranston school committee members patently in the wrong (Ahlquist v. City of Cranston 2012). But the case underscores the bizarre torsions that the conversation around atheism takes on as it unfolds in the twenty-first- century postsecular United States. A school district is required to spend thousands of dollars to destroy a nearly invisible plaque because overnight it has become a treasured emblem of local identity via a media-aided controversy. It is precisely in reaction to conversations like this that I believe Jacques Derrida wrote his famous dis-creed, “I quite rightly pass for an atheist” (Derrida 1993, 155). It captures an ambivalence toward the category of “atheism” illuminated by Ahlquist v. Cranston. Although atheism is a respectable philosophical tradition, the term atheist has become radioactive. It reflects not only a label that has been poisoned by nega- tive associations with the sour, incautious work of writers like Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, and Sam Harris; it is philosophically indebted to an Enlightenment model of subjectivity, in which autonomy is exercised along intersecting tracks of choice, belief, and reason. Thinkers of the postsecular such as Grace Jantzen (1999), Chris Hedges (2008), and Gavin Hyman (2010) have suggested that atheism is a byproduct of Enlighten- ment modernism, a positivist formulation that flattens all of religion into a single empirical question: does God exist or not-exist? Jantzen writes that “both secularism and religion need to be radically rethought as mutually imbricated in some of the most objectionable aspects of the project of modernity” (Jantzen 1999, 8). For these thinkers, this move is deflected by turning to an alternative theism, one that sidesteps the “ontotheological” establishment of God as a “supreme being”—“some sort of chap,” in Terry Eagleton’s formulation (2006)—by re-envisioning God as the ground of being, or as the horizon of becoming, or as the condition of possibility for all things rather than a being. Jantzen and her cohort thus seek religion by other 374 Hypatia means, a postsecular theism that keeps the door open for theology, the church, and faith. These sophisticated philosophical projects are by no means aligned with the anti- atheist reactionaries of Cranston. But a postsecular rebuff of atheism—one that re- frames theism as something more noble than the flags of sectarian combat—is not the only response available. Atheism, a principled affirmation of nonbelief—espe- cially in American public spaces where belief is presumed—needs to remain intact as part of the conversation around religion and secularism. Although I’m sympathetic to projects like those of Jantzen and Hyman that seek to renovate theism, the word God leaves me unmoved. For me and many others, the conversational starting point can only be atheism, not an avant garde theism. This paper is a call for a refreshed atheism—a new new atheism that engages the complexity of religious debates without pressing them down into children’s jigsaw puz- zles. This is where the convergent streams of feminism and poststructuralism enter the picture. My argument is that a feminist, poststructuralist approach can draw out a new paradigm of atheism, one that will begin the slow labor of moving beyond the scuffling stalemate of contemporary debates.